On a Drop of Dew (thing)

See how the orientdew,Shed from
the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of
its mansion new,For the clear region where 'twas born,) Round in
itself incloses ; And, in its little globe's extent,Frames, as it
can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies ; But gazing back upon the skies,Shines with a mournfullight, Like its own tear,Because so
long divided from the sphere.Restless it rolls, and unsecure,
Trembling, lest it grow impure ; Till the warm sun pity its pain,And
to the skies exhale it back again. So the soul, that drop, that
rayOf the clear fountain of eternal day,(Could it within the human
flower be seen,)Remembering still its former height, Shuns the
sweet leaves, and blossoms green, And, recollecting its own
light,Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, expressThe greater heaven
in an heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it
turns away ; So the world-excluding round, Yet receiving
in the day ;Dark beneath, but bright above, Here
disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go ; How
girt and ready to ascend ; Moving but on a point below, It all
about does upwards bend.Such did the manna's sacred dew distil ;White
and entire, though congealed and chill ;Congealed on earth ; but does,
dissolving, runInto the glories of the almighty sun.